Chapter 32 #2
My fingers found the waistband of his shorts.
Master Paul raised his hips a bit to help me, without paying me any further attention as far as I could tell.
I eased his trousers and boxers down, past his knees and onto the floor.
His massive cock rose free, thick and hard and flushed dark, curving upward from his lap with a heaviness that I had learned to recognize as my master’s own arrogant form of need.
This would be the third time I had worshipped Master Paul’s cock.
The first time had been in the studio, on the very first day, when he’d taught me to open my throat and accept his size with tears streaming down my face and his hand firm in my hair.
The second time had been in his apartment, in the amber light of late afternoon, kneeling before the leather armchair while he let me serve him for what felt like hours.
Both times had felt overwhelming—the sheer physical reality of taking something that large into my mouth, the psychological weight of the act, the humiliation and the devotion tangled together in a knot I couldn’t untie.
This time felt different, though.
Everything my master had taught me over the last four days seemed to be present in my body as I lowered my mouth to him.
The lessons lived in my muscles, my breath, and the angle of my jaw.
But it wasn’t just the skill. It was the lingerie, and the way my master had told me it made me look like the sex toy I had become under his firm hand.
The black corset held me upright on my knees, the boning enforcing a posture of elegant submission while the responsive lining worked against my nipples with every breath.
The tiny panties pressed their maddening texture against my bare pussy, keeping me in that state of constant, inescapable arousal.
The stockings sheathed my legs in darkness, the garter straps taut against my thighs.
I felt contained. Shaped. Held in a form that someone else had chosen for me, a form that said: this is what you are. This is what you’re for.
The combination of the skill he’d trained into my mouth and the lingerie encasing my body seemed to create something new inside me.
It felt shamefully, but also deliciously, like a purpose, settling over me like a veil.
I wasn’t a girl nervously attempting something she’d never done.
I wasn’t even a trainee practicing a new technique.
I was a young woman in black lace, kneeling at her master’s feet, performing the service her body had been dressed and shaped and prepared to perform.
I took the head of his cock into my mouth.
The dark, naughty taste of him spread across my tongue and I moaned softly around his girth.
My lips stretched. My jaw opened. I sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch, and I felt my throat begin to resist and then, remembering, softening.
Opening. The head of his cock pressed past the back of my tongue and into the narrower passage of my throat, and instead of gagging or choking, I breathed through my nose, swallowed around him, and felt the thick shaft slide deeper.
Above me, I heard the faint rustle of a page turning.
He was reading. He was actually reading while I knelt between his thighs with his cock in my throat, and the casual indifference of the gesture—real or performed, it didn’t matter—sent a wave of humiliation through me that settled between my legs like a hot coal.
The responsive panties caught the resulting surge of wetness and answered it with increased texture against my folds, I whimpered around his shaft, and the vibration of the sound made his thigh tense fractionally beneath my hand.
I established a rhythm. Slow, worshipful, deliberate—the way he’d taught me.
Each descent took him deep, my lips traveling down the thick shaft until my nose pressed against the dark hair at his base and my throat constricted around the swollen head.
Each withdrawal was gradual, my tongue swirling along the underside, tracing the prominent vein, circling the ridge of the head before I sank down again.
My free hand found the base of his shaft and held him steady, my fingers unable to fully encircle his girth, and the other hand rested on his inner thigh where I could feel the muscle tense and release beneath my palm.
Minutes passed. Pages turned. The warm light pooled across the rug and the leather chair and the tableau we made together—the man reading, the girl kneeling, the slow, wet sounds of devoted oral service filling the quiet den.
The corset held me upright through all of it, the boning preventing the slump of fatigue that would have rounded my shoulders, keeping me presented even in submission.
My nipples ached against the responsive fabric.
My pussy throbbed against the tiny panties, each pulse of arousal answered by a whisper of friction that kept me hovering at the edge of a need I couldn’t address.
And somewhere in the middle of it I felt another shift inside me, and a thought emerged.
I had gotten good at this.
The realization arrived not as a thought, but as a bodily knowledge.
My jaw had found the precise angle that accommodated his size without strain.
My throat opened for him with a practiced ease that would have been unimaginable three days ago.
My tongue knew exactly where to press, exactly how much pressure to apply to the sensitive spot just below the ridge of his head, exactly when to swirl, when to flatten, and when to simply hold still and let the wet heat of my mouth do its work.
My rhythm was steady, confident, unhurried—the rhythm of a girl who understood her humiliating task and trusted her ability to perform it.
I was a good little cocksucker.